


this is not the end

by professortennant



Category: New Amsterdam (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s01e21 This Is Not the End, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “I don’t want to die,” he croaks out, like a deep dark secret has spilled from him. He looks at her with those wide eyes of his and she bites her lip to stop herself from saying something any oncologist shouldn’t. Cancer is a tempestuous bitch that feeds off false hope.“We’re going to fight this, Max. I can’t promise you results, you know that. But I promise you, I’ll fight for you.”





	this is not the end

The eyes of the hospital fall upon them, curious and sympathetic gazes pressing down on them and alerting her to the need to get out of the public eye. She’s had her own fair share of slip-ups walking out of studios, the occasional stumble during interviews, and she knows the best way to recover from a situation is to simply smile, step back, and run.

“Max,” she says through a thick lump in her throat. “We need to get you up and out of here. C’mon.”

He goes without protest--a fact that’s worrying enough in and of itself. She doesn’t bother with demanding he sit down in the wheelchair. She knows better than that; knows  _him_  better than that. 

It doesn’t matter, though. Beneath the scrubs and jacket, he is skin and exhausted bones. She sucks in a breath of shock as the reality of his disease hits her, real and tangible beneath her fingertips.

She can feel the jut of his hip bone peeking out from the too loose elastic around his waist and she can count each and every rib of his as she lifts him up from the ground and settles what little weight there is of him against her side. 

“Trying to cop a feel in my delicate state? Dr. Sharpe, I’m surprised by you.” 

It’s his usual brand of teasing but it’s missing all the spark and energy and joy of it. Instead, it sounds tired and worn and flat. Had it really been so long ago that they were chasing each other about the hospital, a perverse flirtatious game of cat and mouse, as they referred to this disease inside of him as  _Nutella?_

She ignores his words and swallows down the wave of sadness and panic and grief and all of the other riot of emotions rising up within her. There’s blame, too. And guilt. She’d tried to protect their relationship and her heart at the expense of his health. 

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I’m calling you a cab,” she informs him, voice strong. She is his deputy and she will act like it. She’s in charge now. “You’re going to go home and  _rest_  and let this last round of chemo run its course and when you can stand on your own two legs, you’re going to come back to this hospital and we’ll find something else, Max.”

Beside her, he is listening as intently as he can, taking in every word. He looks at her then, eyes dark and haunted with even darker circles beneath them. “Helen,” he starts, searching for words.

Unbidden, her heart leaps to her throat as his fingertips dig into her hip for strength. And then his eyes go glassy and unfocused and he stumbles against her. 

Even with his body mass wasting away, ravaged by chemotherapy, he is substantially taller and heavier than Helen and they go tumbling against the wall hard. Helen lets out a soft  _oof_  but immediately steadies Max, hands wrapping tightly around his shoulders and arms. 

He’s pressed against her, trapping her between his body and the wall, and breathing heavily, like he needs to catch his breath. But the breaths are too quick and shallow and she can’t wrap her head around what’s happening. It was just a little tumble.

And then she feels it: his body trembling against hers, the way his weight sags and rests against her, and the way his breathing is turning into swallowed down hiccups.

He is falling apart in he arms.

Tears sting her eyes and she wraps her arms around him, holding him close and offering what comfort she can. “Max, c’mon,” she whispers, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Follow me.”

Patient or not, friend or not, Max Goodwin is still the medical director of New Amsterdam hospital and she will not let his inevitable breakdown be a public display for anyone.

She tugs him along the hallway, just a few feet to the left that must feel like a few miles to Max. She marvels at how he has managed to stay upright this long at all.

The empty exam room is cool and dark and quiet--a nice respite and contrast from the bright, bustling hallways of the hospital. She expects him to stagger to the exam table and crash, catch his breath, wipe his stinging eyes. She expects him to put distance between them the same way she’s been doing to him.

What she doesn’t expect is the way he wraps himself around her, folds his body and contorts it so she’s pressed against him like a solid anchor. 

She gasps in surprise but doesn’t hesitate. Her arms wrap around his shoulders and back, palm rubbing softly between his shoulder blades, as he takes one deep,shuddering breath and buries his face into the crook of her neck.

“It’s alright, Max,” she soothes, hand rubbing soothingly across his back, reaching up and cupping his neck and squeezing reassuringly. “I’m here. It’s alright.”

Nonsense words of reassurance flow out of her as he clings to her and shakes against her body. His hands are burning their mark onto her skin as he holds her to him. 

The first splash of tears against her neck and shoulder make her close her eyes and hold him tighter before pulling back, hands cupping his face and forcing him to look at her.

His eyes are red-rimmed from trying to hold back tears and she thinks she’s in all her years as an oncologist, seeing the living corpses of her chemotherapy patients will never not be shocking. But seeing  _Max_  like this--vibrant, manic, energetic Max--sapped of energy and looking closer to death’s door than he has any right to be is jarring.

“I don’t want to die,” he croaks out, like a deep dark secret has spilled from him. He looks at her with those wide eyes of his and she bites her lip to stop herself from saying something any oncologist shouldn’t. Cancer is a tempestuous bitch that feeds off false hope.

She stokes her thumb over his cheekbone--prominent in the face of his weight loss--and waits until his eyes are focused and have lost the glossy sheen of fatigue. 

“We’re going to  _fight_  this, Max. I can’t promise you results, you know that. But I promise you, I’ll fight for you.” Her voice turns soft and lilting, a voice she’s never used with any other patient. “You don’t have to carry this alone. You’ve got Georgia and Iggy and Reynolds and the whole damn hospital.”

“And you,” he adds, fingers tightening their grip on her hip before drifting up along the length of her arm and covering the hands on his face with his own. His thumbs are callused as they rub over the back of her hands and she hates that it makes her shiver with more delight than any of Akash’s kisses. 

She smiles softly at him and nods. 

“And me,” she promises. 

He drops his hold on her and steps back, letting out a sigh of exhaustion or relief, she isn’t sure. Max takes one strong stride to the empty chair to his left and collapses into it, staring hard at his shoes, fingers absentmindedly playing with the strings of his hoodie.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he starts. “I don’t--” He stops himself, like he thinks he shouldn’t say what he’s about to say. And then continues anyway. “I don’t think I can do this without you.”

She wonders if he means the chemo and the hospital or something else all together. She’s tired of speaking in half-veiled truths and metaphors. But with his body wasting away, ravaged by chemotherapy that no one was designed to withstands, and a wife with a high-risk pregnancy waiting for him at home, this isn’t the time to ask those questions. 

Maybe there won’t ever be a time.

She kneels in front of him and takes his hands in hers. This is new, too. The touching. Back in the hospital hallway, on the floor of that steep incline, she’d wanted to press herself against his back and pepper kisses to his shoulder in comfort and reassurance, had wanted to drop her chin or forehead to his shoulder and just breathed him in.

She’d felt him lean back then, and thought maybe she wasn’t the only one fighting this new desire to simply  _touch._

 _“_ I’m not going anywhere,” she promises him. “You’re going to sit here and catch your breath and I’m going to be right here. Then, we’re going to get you a cab and you’re going to go home. And when you’re ready,” she reiterated, echoing her earlier promise. “I’ll help you fight every last damn cancer cell.”

“Together,” he said, half question, half statement. His hands in hers were warm and large and she fought the urge to raise their joined hands to her lips to seal her promise with a soft kiss to the place where their palms pressed together and their fingers entwined. 

“Together,” she promised, voice strong and sure. She was done hiding from him--from them. His life was on the line and that was far more important than any heartache. 

“Okay,” he said with a nod before sliding back into his chair, legs splaying, and head falling back against the headrest. “Then I’m going to sleep for just a few minutes and then you can stuff me in that cab, okay?”

Before she had a chance to agree, his eyes were closed and he was dozing softly, regaining what little energy he had to expend.

She let her eyes linger over the cut of his jaw and the scruff of his beard and the loose way his scrubs now settled over his body. She would see him restored to his previous vitality. She  _would_.

But until then, she simply sat by his side, holding his hand, and watched him sleep. 

His own personal guardian angel.


End file.
